


Silence and a Soup Ladle

by RunawayJay



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Journal Entry elaboration, Pre-Calamity Ganon, zelink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22156390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayJay/pseuds/RunawayJay
Summary: After a day of traveling with dull, one-sided conversation, Zelda finally snaps at Link-and he finally speaks.
Relationships: Link/Zelda (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 319





	Silence and a Soup Ladle

**Author's Note:**

> I was really intrigued by the journal entry where Zelda mentioned Link finally told her why he doesn't speak a lot, and we were robbed of this memory! In detail! Which is why fanfic exists, so please enjoy and comment what you think!
> 
> Also, I haven't written fic in like two years, so hopefully this isn't as rusty as I feel.
> 
> Happy reading!

It was a wonderful day for conversation, if one was so inclined. A deer would step on and snap a twig, an orange fox would squeak in response, a boar would snort as the fox ran past it into the thick of trees—and Zelda had started to slip obscene statements into her outward thought monologues just to goad Link into some sound other than a sneeze. Halfway into their trip from the castle to the Spring of Courage, and all she’d managed to get out of him was in response to a grassy handful of Hyrule Herb held too close to his nose. Instead of praying for her powers, Zelda was considering asking the goddess for a new appointed knight. Or better yet, none at all.

“…we’ll have to locate more Guardians, of course,” Zelda continued her monologue. She’d gone from thoughtful out loud to thoughtless out loud—such was the day—and she was bothered by her dwindling interest in trying to have a conversation at all. “Perhaps the Sheikah Slate could locate them. Or perhaps if I banged my head against it enough times I could develop the Slate’s powers through osmosis and never have to wonder about the wretched thing again.”

Behind her, Link stood in his stirrups to reach for an apple hanging high over their path. All she heard was the steady rhythm of his horse’s walk. That, and the rustle and snap of leaves and branches as the apple was sprung free.

“I suppose ancient Sheikah technology could be so advanced as to facilitate knowledge through osmosis,” Zelda sighed, bothered once more by the ever growing mystery of the Slate and all the other mechanical Sheikah remains.

Yes, it was a wonderful day for conversation, if one was so inclined. Except Zelda was the only one in the present company—besides the deer and the foxes and the boar and the birds and the trees and every living thing other than Link—who was even remotely interested in conversation, and that was also bothersome.

Except what really bothered her was that she’d made Link sneeze on accident. When she’d grabbed the handful of the herb and excitedly spun to narrate its health benefits, she hadn’t known he’d be standing so damn close behind her.

Zelda glanced over her shoulder, and so great was her sudden distraction that she thought herself quite fortunate that her mare already knew the way to the Spring of Courage. Link was now leaning sideways off his saddle, holding a stirrup as he reached to pluck a mushroom growing near the path without dismounting. His form was so intriguing, Zelda hadn’t had the thought left to spare to think that it was actually quite fortunate _his_ mare knew the way to the Spring of Courage, instead, in addition to being well acquainted with Link’s saddle acrobatics.

He righted himself without a single grunt of effort, and pocketed his mushroom prize into the same sack the apple had disappeared into. He strung the sack from his saddle and patted his horse’s neck, whispering something in her ear that made her whinny and happily shake her ears.

Zelda righted herself before he could look forward at her. Of course he had words to spare for his horse, if not for her. It was terrible enough to feel his blue gaze at her back all day long, Zelda thought. If he wouldn’t stoop from his silent self-righteousness to converse with her, then she wouldn’t bother acknowledging him with eye-contact.

Not just then, anyway. She imagined she’d have to look at him eventually—such was the day—and when she did she would not think about how the blue of his Champion’s tunic was quite flattering to him. She certainly would also not think about how she’d seen his tunic fall up as he leaned for the mushroom. Nor would she think about the ragged, painful scar that’d been exposed crossing his hip towards his abdomen.

“Perhaps even the Divine Beasts could help us locate the Guardians,” Zelda returned to her monologue with renewed cheer, enough to startle both a nearby buck and herself. “Vah Medoh could provide an aerial search, if Revali agreed to assist our efforts with mastering more of the ancient technology.”

She was not surprised to hear only silence and hoof beats from behind her. She was hurt, however, and rather than let the quiet sting into the already festering wound her anxiety had created upon leaving for yet another pointless, fruitless, and divinely ignored journey to the Spring of Courage, she decided to be angry. If some of her frustrations found their way into her thoughtless monologue, well then that was for her escort—the precious Hero of Hyrule—to choose to respond or not.

By the end of the day, all she’d gotten was the single sneeze.

***

Rather than stay at a stable inn, they’d elected to camp on a hill overlooking Lake Hylia, protected by a small copse of trees and some boulders. Link had removed the tack from their horses and set them to graze nearby within whistling distance, and from his bags he produced a cooking pot. He arranged some wood and rocks for a firepit, then set the pot to heat up.

Zelda undid her bedroll and set to taking pictures of nearby flora with the Sheikah Slate, not bothering to stop from grinding her teeth at every silent, deft movement Link made. The removing of his bow and quiver. The setting of both within arms-reach, but out of the way of the flames creeping up the sides of the pot. The sharpening of a paring knife against the blunt-less Master Sword. The sheathing of the Master Sword, done with the swiftness that comes from having done something thousands of times. Everything Link did was so full of his own assuredness—and so damn _precise_ and perfect—it made Zelda want to move her bedroll to the next hilltop so she didn’t have to see him until morning, such was the day.

Of course, if she acted on this impulse, he’d simply stomp out the small fire and carry their tack over to the next hilltop, too, and act like nothing was the matter with it even though everything was the matter with it. Zelda turned the Shiekah Slate toward the sunset as he set to cutting up the mushrooms he’d procured from their day’s ride, cooking them in the warmed up pot with rock salt and milk he’d likely brought from the castle and—and the Hyrule Herb she’d accidentally shoved in his face to make him sneeze, but without the grass.

Zelda lowered the Slate as she stared, watching him pick apart the bundle of herb and toss it into the pot, cross-legged and completely unbothered by how that was _her_ herb or how she was staring at him for _using_ her herb. Zelda huffed quietly and returned her attention to the Slate. Parts of the sky were now turning honey orange and blonde, which unfortunately she recognized as a color not too dissimilar from the color of Link’s hair. She turned the Slate toward a darker part of sky and pretended that whatever he was cooking did not smell as delicious as it did. Her pretending grew easier as she thought of the Spring of Courage they’d reach tomorrow. Her stomach turned at the thought of another failure amongst a lifetime of failures—something her escort knew nothing about.

He was so oblivious to the looming threat of her inevitable failure tomorrow that she heard him _humming_ as he stirred the pot. She paused the Sheikah Slate on an Armoranth bloom, and listened to his quiet tune, obviously meant to be heard only by himself.

How _dare_ he.

Horses and sneezes and hummings, but not a single word spoken to her all day! When Link approached her with a ladled bowl of cream of mushroom soup, Zelda was hard pressed to not smack it out of his hand and drench his lap with its hot contents.

But that was not becoming of a princess, and she knew she could not—no matter how hot her cheeks burned as his slight against her.

Instead of dumping soup onto him, Zelda simply said, “No thank you.” If there was any degree of malice that made it into her voice, her escort gave no notice to it.

Link continued to hold the bowl out to her, and the creamy mushroom smell continued to fill her senses. She was sick and starved at the same time, if that was even possible. She felt irritated that she couldn’t decide between the two and that there was a crease growing ever deeper on Link’s forehead, right between his eyebrows. Her father had them always, and when she was alive her mother had called it a worry-line. She’d smooth it out with her thumb, and it was one of the few memories Zelda had of her father smiling.

“I said _no thank you_ ,” Zelda snapped at him. He didn’t even blink. “I feel too sick to be hungry—not that that’s any feeling you’re familiar with. The child knight and Hero of Hyrule? The chosen wielder of the Sword that Seals the Darkness? You’ve never had to question your worthiness or whether the Goddess loves you enough to bless you with your natural gifts. It’s all just _given_ to you, isn’t it? And you’ve never had to worry about it a day in your life, have you? I imagine anxiety is completely unfamiliar to you, so no _thank you_. I will not be having any of this soup you made with _my_ Hyrule Herb, by the way. I’d rather fast in tribute to the Goddess.”

Link held the bowl for a moment longer, then set it down on the edge of her bedroll before following beside it. He crossed his legs and his knee accidentally pressed against hers, sharp and warm. He stared between her and the fire and cleared his throat. It was second-best to a sneeze, anyway. More direct then quiet humming.

“Oh no,” Zelda mocked. “Please don’t break your record of silence on my account. I was just starting a conversation with the echo of my own voice against these rocks, and I’d hate for you to interrupt.”

Despite the burn in her cheeks and in her chest being as hot as she thought they could possibly be, they burned even hotter when the corner of Link’s mouth turned a slight smile. It dropped quickly from his face—about as fast as it took for Zelda’s to open in preparation for another vicious monologue—but it stayed lit in his eyes, and for that she found him so unforgivable in so many ways. She forgot what she was going to say next.

“I like cooking because its simple,” Link said, and Zelda was shocked by the tenor of his voice. She thought the Calamity had struck while she’d been trying to remember her next words, and her and Link were ghosts who’d switched places. Zelda closed her mouth and Link smiled quickly at her again. This one was less genuine than before, and it didn’t stay in his eyes at all. He lifted his bowl from his lap and spooned a bite of mushroom.

“The consequences of messing it up aren’t so terrible,” he added, swallowing down another bite. He gestured to her bowl with his elbow, and she was so shocked she couldn’t stop from picking it up and spooning a small bite. It was better than the castle chef’s cream of mushroom soup on any day of the week.

She spooned another mouthful and found the flush in her face and chest fade as her insides warmed instead. The soup was reviving and comforting, just like the sharp press of his warm knee against hers.

“Is that why you’re so quiet?” Zelda said softly, because it wasn’t really a question. She let her bowl rest gently in her lap.

Link slowed in his enthusiastic eating and looked at her. The fire and the soup had warmed his cheeks pink. He nodded, but only once.

“You need to awaken your sealing powers to fight the Calamity, to save Hyrule, to fulfill a destiny appointed by the Goddess, because you’re the only one who can do it,” Link said. His voice sounded hoarse, both from disuse and from his whisper. “I need to fight the Calamity, save Hyrule, and protect you in fulfilling your destiny because you _are_ the only one who can do it. If I mess up, the consequences are much worse than a plate of dubious looking food.”

Link paused and looked at the fire. She watched him swallow hard on nothing. He quickly turned another false smile her way and spooned a large mouthful of soup. “Somewhere along the way,” he said, his mouth still somewhat full, “it just became easier to stay quiet and focus on getting the recipe right. No one else needs to know how hard the cook can be, as long as it tastes perfect in the end.”

Zelda thought she’d never heard him say so many words at once, and something in her softened to know that she was the one he’d said them to. Something softened to learn that perhaps the perfectly blessed Hero of Hyrule was perhaps not so perfectly blessed after all.

“Well,” she cleared her throat and lifted her bowl for another mouthful of soup. “I’d say you’re quite good at it, regardless of how difficult it may be.”

Link stared at her, blinking in surprise.

“The cook,” she clarified, because she wasn’t going to admit that of all the knights she’d had protect her, he was the best—if not the most infuriating. Any apology for her behavior throughout the day was stuck like a frog in her throat, stinging her eyes with unshed tears. “The soup is actually quite good. It’s perfect, really.”

“Oh,” Link said, and then looked at his own nearly empty bowl. “Thank you. I was planning to make some baked apples for dessert. If you’re not too sick to eat, I mean.”

Zelda paused with a spoonful of soup in her mouth. She was surprised by the genuineness in Link’s words—that he’d listened to her unfair rant as something other than insulting to himself. The warmth from the soup sunk further into her, and Zelda bit her lip for the guilt it swam with. That is, until Link grinned sideways at her and nudged her shoulder with his elbow in a kidding gesture. Then, she wanted to yell at him again—or at least smack his ear with her spoon.

“Hey!” Link shouted as she tried the latter, shifting away to avoid her spoon smacking and consequently breaking the contact between their knees. It felt cold where he’d been, and Zelda regretted trying to hit him only a little bit. She noticed he protected his soup bowl and its few remaining contents, and she stopped trying to smack him.

“You really love food, don’t you?” She asked.

He shrugged and kept eating, answering her with his customary quiet.

“Well, I always knew you were a glutton,” she added, and he had feelings enough to look slightly hurt by her comment. “I had assumed it was because you burned so many calories during your intense trainings, that you needed to eat such copious amounts to meet the demands of your high metabolism and satiate your growing body’s needs for optimum physical fitness.”

Link swallowed slowly and nodded. “Well, yeah. You try swinging that sword around all day,” he nodded to the hilt over her shoulder, “you’d be hungry, too.”

“I didn’t think it was because you enjoyed it, is what I meant,” Zelda said, somewhat ashamed as she admitted it, but not unaware of how her and Link were finally having a conversation. Softly, she confessed, “I didn’t think you enjoyed anything, really.”

“I enjoy lots of things,” he said, speaking easily and as un-insulted as a person could be, ladling himself more soup. Zelda was grateful for it—for him—for the first time she could remember. It was strange feeling. He gestured the ladle towards her bowl, asking if she wanted more, and she politely shook her head. Despite everything, nerves really did have a hold of her appetite. “I like sand seal surfing, for one thing.”

Zelda laughed, but it came out of her nose more like a snort than anything. She covered her face with a hand and peeked at Link between her fingers. He looked at her, and the worry-line furrowed his brow again.

“I’m serious,” he said, and this time she laughed like a regular person would laugh. “Shield surfing in general. It’s fun.”

Zelda controlled her laughter enough to ask, “And what other things does the Hero of Hyrule enjoy?”

Link paused and looked at the fire. He lapsed into silence as he consumed the rest of his second bowl of mushroom soup, and Zelda started poking at hers with her spoon as her laughing fit left. She worried he’d returned to his quiet for good because she’d teased him. She didn’t anticipate being wrong.

“I enjoy listening to you talk,” he said suddenly. Her eyes snapped up, and she watched him reach for the soup ladle to dish himself a third bowl. As he reached, she thought again of him leaning out of his saddle, stretching for the mushrooms he’d use to make their meal, and of the exposed scar and how he’d gotten it. Of whether it hurt him still. “I like how you think out loud,” he added, stirring the soup first. “You do what I can’t—”

Link broke off at the sound of vicious, incessant squeaks—at the flapping of wings. Bowl forgotten on the ground, his eyes turned to the now darkened sky. Zelda followed his gaze, her breath trapped in her throat at the sudden interruption. She saw nothing except stars between the tree branches. The sound kept coming, and she looked harder and harder at the dark sky when—

Link lunged and smacked two keese out of the air with the soup ladle. They screeched as they fell, smacking against the nearby boulders and dissipating into smoke. All that was left was a few forgotten, taloned wings and a heartbeat thumping in Zelda’s ears.

“Keese,” Link said with a fair amount of disgust. “They’re the most annoying monsters I think I’ve ever met. At least Chuchu’s are somewhat cute with all their round slowness.”

He reached for the dropped keese wings and stored them into the same pouch she’d watched him put apples and mushrooms in throughout the day. Zelda found her voice, but she felt like gagging.

“You don’t cook with _those_ , do you?” She asked, terrified at the soup she’d just eaten—no matter how delicious.

Link widened his eyes in horror. “Of course not. Talk about making dubious food.”

Zelda swallowed hard, a hand pressed to her throat, and Link sat beside her again. He inspected his soup ladle for damage, muttering about how he really didn’t want to purchase another one, when she asked, “What is it that you use them for? The keese wings, I mean. I’ve read they have potentially potent properties, but the text said nothing about what those properties may be.”

Link looked at her as he ran a heavy palm across the wooden ladle, sighing when the spoon splintered away from the handle. He discarded it behind him and stared longingly at the remains of his soup.

“Monster parts are good to make elixirs with,” he said. “You never know when you might need to make one, so it’s always good to have a stock and be prepared.”

Zelda stared in anticipation at Link’s tack—particularly at the sack containing the stock in question. Her anxiety had warmed away with the soup, and now her mind was preoccupied with something new.

“Do you think…” Zelda started, but she glanced hesitantly at him without finishing. After her wretched behavior towards him today—and all the days previous, she supposed—she wasn’t sure if it would be right to ask.

Link smiled again, the kind that took his face by surprise and remained in his blue eyes even after his lips had returned to their focused expression, and answered her question for her. He gestured towards the sack as though he didn’t care at all what was in it—besides maybe the apples.

Zelda lunged for the keese wing. She hardly noticed as Link reclined against her bedroll, one hand behind his head, listening to her thoughtful monologue and many wonders for the evening.


End file.
